The Book Thief
by Browncoats and Floral Bonnets
Summary: Napoleon has an unfortunate encounter that ends with him bleeding and locked in a vault, leaving him with no choice but to talk Illya through opening it before it's too late-a task that's easier said than done. Rating for the usual-violence and language.


Napoleon looks into the window of the little shop as they pass, driving slowly enough that he can get a good look at the inside, but not so slow as to be noticed.

"Well, damn," he says. There are two men standing at the window despite the sign saying _closed_ , and even from a distance Napoleon can tell they're armed.

Illya pauses and looks up from cleaning his gun, one brow raised. "What is it?"

Napoleon heaves a sigh as he turns into an alley a little ways down the street. "I think someone may have beat us to the book."

Illya's raised brow lowers into a frown and he looks back at his sidearm. "Are you sure?"

"There are two armed men watching the front."

"Shit."

"The good news is..." Napoleon says, pausing to turn the car off. He doesn't continue until Illya is looking at him again. "We got here before they left."

"So we can take the book from them."

"If we move quickly, yes. Of course, it'll be slightly more complicated now that there's some competition."

Illya shrugs. "I'm sure we've had worse."

Napoleon nods. "Agreed." He leans across Illya and tugs the door handle before looking up at him with a grin. "Shall we?"

Illya rolls his eyes and gives Napoleon a good-natured shove. "Get off me."

Napoleon takes his time sitting up, stretching his back and getting in a few satisfying pops as he does so, then draws his weapon to make certain it's loaded. "Besides the two watching the front, there are probably a few more keeping an eye on whatever civilians were unfortunate enough to be in the building."

"So...once we're in I'll check up on the hostages and you'll go down to the vault for the book?"

"Are you sure you don't want to go after the book?" Napoleon says slowly, looking over at Illya.

The Russian raises an eyebrow at him. "You get the damned book."

Napoleon bites back a smile as he holster his gun. He'd already known the answer, of course. His affinity for all things old and rare isn't exactly a secret, and Illya and Gaby are in his apartment frequently enough to be familiar with his book collection, including his greatest pride-half a shelf of first editions. "Well, I had to ask."

"Mmhm," Illya says, pushing his door the rest of the way open. "Let's get going. You wouldn't want someone else getting away with your _Walden_."

"Or the nuclear secrets," Napoleon adds as he opens his door climbs out of the driver's seat.

" _Alleged_ nuclear secrets."

"You don't trust Professor Behr?" Napoleon asks. They walk at an easy stroll, their long strides enough to get them there quickly without them looking like they're in a hurry.

Illya snorts. "I think if Walter Ludlow of _Ludlow's Books and Oddities_ were a Soviet spy, we would know."

"I don't know about that," Napoleon says as they cross to the side of the street the bookstore is on. "They can be quite sneaky, you know." They're almost to their destination when he draws his gun. He glances over his shoulder toward his partner. "You ready?"

" _Da_."

The two men at the front turn out to by quite easy to dispatch. It takes only a few short moments to find where the hostages are-a few scared civilians crammed into a small office with a single guard on the door. Illya is handling him when Napoleon heads to the basement. He closes the door behind him and is startled at how quiet the room is he hurries quietly down the wooden staircase.

The vault is already open when Napoleon gets to the bottom of the steps, and there's a person unconscious just inside. Napoleon kneels down and checks his pulse. It's there, and strong. Most likely he was forced to open the safe and then got a blow to the back of the head for his trouble. There's no sign of anyone else in the basement, just an open window leading to a window well large enough for a man to escape through. Napoleon briefly considers going after the thief, but the man probably has a good lead and Napoleon has no idea what he looks like. He decides to go into the vault instead, on the off-chance that perhaps the thief were after something other than a book full of nuclear secrets.

A quick scan of the vault reveals shelves full of old volumes, from Homer to Dickens to Bronte. His attention is drawn to a wide gap, too large to have been the book he's after. Whatever it was would have to be worth a hell of a lot to warrant so many men coming to retrieve it. Further exploration brings a smile to Napoleon's lips, and he pulls a first edition _Walden_ from the shelf. He returns his gun to his shoulder holster, not bothering to buckle it as he shifts his attention to the book. He leafs through the pages with a sinking feeling, his preliminary search revealing no notes in the margins, no loose papers, no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

It appears Walter Ludlow of _Ludlow's Books and Oddities_ is merely a collector after all.

"Hands up, if you please," someone says, and his words are followed by the _click_ of a gun being cocked. "Then turn around, slowly."

Napoleon closes his eyes in frustration, then lifts his arms above his head and turns in a slow half-circle, the first-edition _Walden_ still clutched in his left hand. He silently curses himself for walking right into a _fucking_ trap. "That was a good trick," he says to the man who had been lying on the floor moments before.

"You'd be surprised how many have fallen for it. Now kindly keep your hands where they are. If I see you reach for your piece and it'll be the last mistake you ever make."

Napoleon obeys, wishing that this basement weren't soundproof and that his damned partner would _hurry the hell up._

"You shouldn't have come alone," the man says.

Napoleon furrows his brow. "Yes, that was foolish of me, wasn't it?" His gaze shifts to the large book tucked under the man's left arm.

"Gutenberg Bible. It's said to be worth millions," the man says, then stares at him for a long moment before a look of recognition crosses his features. "I know you. I remember face, and your many...achievements." There's something akin to admiration in his voice. "The Rembrandt in Manchester, '46. The German pearls in '48, the Spanish gold in '49…" A corner of the man's mouth lifts up. "To think, I came face-to-face, nay, head-to-head, with the Brooklyn Dodger."

Napoleon can't help but smile at that, despite the perilousness of his situation. "I always liked that nickname, although I'm not from Brooklyn, and I've never been a fan of baseball...Or Dickens for that matter."

The man laughs, and it turns into a sigh. "You're a proper legend. It would be a shame for you to die here," he says.

"I can't say I disagree," Napoleon responds. _Any minute now, Kuryakin._

"But I can't risk you coming after me."

"Probably wise." His right hand is itching to draw his gun, and he's pretty sure the man knows it.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Napoleon makes his move. He's barely drawn his weapon when the man's hand suddenly twitches and a shot rings out.

Napoleon cries out as his leg collapses beneath him and he hits the floor, the gun escaping his fingers and clattering to the floor, out of reach. He can do nothing but watch as the man slips out and shuts the vault door, plunging Napoleon into darkness.

"Fuck!" he mutters as he hears the deep, heavy sound of the locks falling into place. Hardly a second passes before there's a pop that Napoleon immediately recognizes as gunfire and his breath catches, fear lacing through him. The silence seems to stretch on for eternity, and Napoleon has almost given up hope when there's a sudden banging on the door.

" _Cowboy?"_ comes a muffled voice.

Fear gives way to relief and Napoleon lets out the breath he was holding. "Yeah, Peril," he calls.

" _I heard a shot. Are you okay?"_

Napoleon almost laughs because _not really_. His ego has taken a blow from which it might never recover, his leg hurts like a bitch and is bleeding enough that he's going to have to use his new Hugo Boss necktie as a tourniquet, and the intel they'd gotten from the nutty professor is probably shit, which means (damn it) that Illya was right.

And that isn't even the worst of it.

Oxygen started running out the minute the door closed. Napoleon figures he's probably got an hour, maybe two left before he loses consciousness, and from there it's only a matter of minutes. He can't tell Illya that, though, because it'll just make him panic and panic is the opposite of progress.

So, he raises his voice and says, "I'm fine! Bastard got me in the leg but I'll be okay. He missed the artery and I think he missed the bone."

" _He shot you in the leg? Why not the chest, or the head?"_

Napoleon does laugh this time as he loosens his tie. "He was a fan."

" _A fan? A fan of what?"_ There's a pause and Napoleon thinks he hears him snort before he says, " _What's the combination? I'll get you out of there."_

Napoleon is considering the best way to answer that question when Illya says, " _Solo?"_

"Yes, I'm here. I don't know the combination."

" _What do you mean you don't know it? How did you get in there?"_

"It...it was open when I got here."

Illya swears in Russian, rather colorfully, mirroring how Napoleon is feeling. Napoleon tries not to let it show in his voice. "It's okay, Kuryakin. It's okay. I'll just…I'll talk you through it."

He's really just saying it to try and calm the Russian down. The unfortunate truth is that opening combination locks by touch is a complicated and delicate work that takes years to even grasp. Hell, Napoleon's been at it nearly twenty years and it still takes time.

" _Alright. Tell me what to do,"_ Illya says.

"I will. Just give me a few minutes. I'm gonna move closer to you so we can talk easier." He stays put for a second, trying to remember if he'd seen something rigid he can use to tighten the tourniquet. His thoughts quickly turn to his gun that's sitting somewhere between himself and the door. The clip should work well enough.

Of course, he has to _get_ _to it_ first.

He bends his good leg and holds his breath to steel himself before straightening it, pushing himself backwards. It hurts like a sonuvabitch, but he doesn't lose consciousness and he's somehow not crying, so it could be worse. It takes him another few scootches and blind feeling around to get to the gun and its clip, and he's tempted to just stop there.

" _You still awake in there?"_ Illya is trying not to sound worried.

"Yes, Illya!" Napoleon manages between gasps. He catches his breath for a moment before going the rest of the way to the door. He leans against it, grateful for its support and for the fact that he doesn't have to move his leg again. He does, however, have to stop the bleeding and _that_ will be wildly unpleasant.

"I'm going to put a tourniquet on my leg," he says as he takes the tie from around his neck and loops it around his leg, a few inches above the wound and ties a half-knot. "And it's going to be rather painful. So if you hear me...shouting in agony followed by a somewhat lengthy silence, I've probably passed out. But there's no need to worry as I will be back around shortly."

He doesn't hear Illya's response as he ejects the clip from his gun. He puts it on top of the half-knot and ties it into place, his hands trembling and his heart hammering as he mentally prepares himself for what's to come. He takes a deep breath and holds it, then twists the clip, tightening the tourniquet. The breath rushes from his lungs and he the world seems to tilt wildly for a second. The pain is agonizing and a cry escapes from him. He's not sure he's going to be able to tighten it as much as he needs to, but he forces himself to keep going, tightening it until he can't and then tightening it a little more. By the time he's done, his breath is coming in harsh, ragged pants, his ears are ringing, and his whole body is shaking and sweaty. He closes his eyes just for a moment before tying off the tourniquet.

" _-boy. Solo! Are you okay?"_

"Uh...yeah," Napoleon manages, his voice gruff.

" _Tell me what to do."_

Napoleon takes a few deep breaths, pulling his focus from the pain in his leg and directing it to the task at hand. "You need to turn the dial left, about four times."

" _About four times, or four times?"_

Napoleon lets out a small is going to be harder than he thought. Cracking a vault isn't like changing a tire or baking a cake, where there are exact steps and measurements. It's about the _feel_ of it, really, and it's damn near impossible to explain.

It's not long before Illya starts to get frustrated, and it takes everything in Napoleon's power not to follow suit.

" _This isn't working!"_

"It just takes a little time, that's all," Napoleon says, careful not to let his emotions make their way into his words.

" _You've always been better at this part._ Ya beznadezan _!"_

Napoleon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again. "You're not hopeless. You just need to focus."

" _I can't focus when you're in there with a bullet in your leg!"_

Illya is shutting down, and Napoleon can't afford for him to. He's got to calm his partner down, get his mind onto something that will recenter his focus before making him go at the vault again. The idea comes to him and almost brings a smile with it.

"B1 to c3," he says. He knows the Russian well.

" _What?"_

"B1 to c3," Napoleon repeats, picking up the chess game they'd started the previous night. "Your move."

There's a short pause before Illya says, " _E7 to e5."_

"Let's see...E2 to e6."

They play like this for ten minutes or so, and Napoleon finds that it's calming him down too. Part of him wants to finish the game, but now's really not the time so he says, somewhat reluctantly, "Are you ready to try again?"

" _Yes, I think so."_

"Good. Now, you need to turn the dial to the left and listen for the level to drop into the drive cam."

" _...The what?"_

Napoleon isn't sure what he expected.

They've both calmed down, yes, but besides that they're still at square one. He's probably used up about half his air and they're no closer to getting the damned thing open. He's fairly certain now that he's going to die in this horrible metal box, holding an ordinary book that doesn't hold any more secrets than any other copy of _Walden_. But he can't give up. For Illya's sake, he can't.

"For the-Um. Hm. Just feel for the-"

" _Fuck this,"_ Illya interrupts, catching Napoleon completely off guard, and before he can respond Illya continues. " _You have been in there for close to an hour. You're running out of oxygen and you know and I know that I will not get this in time."_

"You don't know that," Napoleon says, fully aware that he doesn't sound even remotely convincing.

" _I'm going to find another way, Solo. I'm sorry I couldn't-"_

"Stop!" Napoleon can't stand to hear him apologize. Not for something that's as a result of Napoleon's own stupidity. "You know this isn't your fault right? If this-if you can't...It's not your fault."

" _I will be back, Cowboy. I'm going to get you out."_

"Illya, wait!" Napoleon says, but there's no answer, and he knows Illya is gone. He closes his eyes, heart sinking, and finishes his thought anyway. "I don't want to die alone."

xxx

Illya looks at the blood in the window well from where he'd hit the bastard that locked Solo in the safe, and briefly considers whether he could follow the trail through the streets of London. It only takes a moment to determine that the better option is upstairs handcuffed to a radiator. He wastes no time getting there, taking the steps two at a time. He bursts out onto the upper floor and a pit forms in his stomach when he sees that the office door, which he's certain he left closed, is now wide open.

"Shitshitshitshit _shit_ ," he mutters. _If that bastard managed to escape then Napoleon-_

He doesn't finish the thought, because when he gets around the door and into the room the man is still there, looking very angry and very stuck.

"The men you asked to guard me were cowards," he says when he sees Illya. "They ran as soon as you were out of sight." He tugs at his cuffed wrist with a sour expression. "Fat lot of good it did me."

"Where is he?" Illya says.

"Do you mean Graves? Got away then, did he? That's just bloody typical."

"Where is he?" Illya says again, crossing the small room in a single stride and grabbing a fistful of the man's shirt. The man responds with an amused smile, but Illya can see the fear in his eyes. He lowers his voice and leans in so his nose is practically touching the man's. "I have already broken your nose."

The man's eyes widen and the corners of his mouth twitch as he tried to keep up the facade. "I don't know where he is," he says.

"I think maybe you are afraid of him." Illya's voice is lowered, almost to a whisper. "But you should be more afraid of me. I am ex-KGB. I know many creative ways how to make people talk, hm? You want me to show you? Or you want to tell me the truth?"

The man's brow furrows, the smile gone. "I _am_ telling you the truth. I don't know where he is."

"Not good enough," Illya says, tightening his grip.

"Wait!" the man cries, eyes wide and face pale. "Just wait, alright? I don't know where he is. But I know how to find him. Eliza Andrews. He won't leave without her. She's tall for a woman, with long dark hair, birthmark on her right jaw, fond of trousers. American. She's sort of hard to miss, really."

"And where is she?"

"She's staying at the Savoy. That's all I know, I swear."

Illya studies the man's face for a second before letting go of his shirt. "You pray to whatever god you believe in that I find him, or I will come back here and take you apart."

The man holds his eye contact for a moment before looking away with a sharp humorless laugh. "Blimey. I do believe you will. Graves is a slippery bastard, Mr. KGB. You had better hurry."

Illya does.

xxx

Eliza Andrews _is_ hard to miss. Illya spots her leaving the Savoy mere seconds after he gets there, wearing white flared trousers and an olive button-down, her white jacket flung over her shoulder with one hand and Louis Vuitton luggage in the other. She's doing a good job of hiding it, but Illya can tell that she's looking for tails. She probably knows how to shake them, then.

Unfortunately for Graves, Illya has plenty of experience tailing people who know how to shake tails. Between his years at the KGB and his time working with Gaby and Solo, he's damn near perfected the art of blending in despite his stature and the fact that he rarely blinks and his tendency to glower. He makes sure to keep plenty of people between himself and Eliza, keeping his head down and his shoulders slightly hunched to make himself smaller, and then it's just a matter of following. He knows London like the back of his hand, its nooks and crannies, its dark corners and passageways.

It doesn't take long before Eliza does a quick look around and ducks into an alley, the right wall of which belongs to an abandoned garage. It's an old and empty building, perfect for shady dealings. He watches her slip through the door, then waits until he hears a man's voice- _Graves's voice_ -before entering the building himself.

The girl is holding the Bible. The man is holding his bleeding shoulder.

Illya is holding a gun.

They both look up at once.

"Oh, dear," Eliza says, clutching the Bible a little tighter.

"You were followed?" Graves snaps, taking a few threatening steps toward Eliza. Illya fires a warning shot at his feet, stopping the bastard dead in his tracks.

"In her defense, I am very good follower," Illya says, then turns to Eliza. "Get out of here."

"She won't leave me," Graves says. "Will you, darling?"

Eliza looks at Graves, then back at Illya. "Can I keep the book?"

"Go," Illya says, and she scurries away, a satisfied grin on her face.

"You spoiled Yankee bitch!" Graves shouts, and moves to follow her. Illya steps in front of him and grabs his bad shoulder, pressing his thumb into the bullet hole he'd put there. Graves cries out in pain, falling to his knees. Illya doesn't let go.

"You're coming with me," he says. Graves makes a desperate grab for his gun, but Illya easily disarms him, throwing the weapon out of reach. "I said _you're coming with me_. If you try anything else, I will put a bullet in your knee."

Graves glowers at him as he staggers to his feet. "I don't know who you think you're dealing with, but-"

"Shut up," Illya interrupts, moving behind Graves and giving him a shove toward the door. "Move quick and quiet." He doesn't bother making any more threats. If Graves doesn't believe him by now then he's either too stupid to recognize the precariousness of his situation, or too prideful to acknowledge it.

They take a complex, weaving route back to the bookstore that keeps them mostly out of view of the general public. It takes a little longer, but it's worth it to avoid the risk of being stopped by someone. Illya shudders to think what would befall Solo if that were to happen.

It makes him step a little faster.

 _Ludlow's Books and Oddities_ comes into sight just a few minutes later and Illya prays it's soon enough as he leads Graves across the street and into the little store. A tiny bell tinkles when he opens the door and a call comes from the office.

"Did you get him?"

"Kidd, you bastard!" Graves shouts. "You gave me up! I'll kill you!"

"Keep moving," Illya says, pushing him toward the basement door as Kidd laughs.

"Oh, I see. You couldn't get into the vault," Graves says as they start down the stairs.

"You want to stop talking," Illya says.

"And you let Lizzie get away with the Bible, so unless you don't know its worth, it's not money you wa-"

Illya grabs Graves's good arm and twists it up behind his back, forcing him down the rest of the steps before slamming him face first into the vault door.

" _Ow_! Damn you!"

Illya's breaths are coming hard and heavy, and he clenches his fists to stop his hands shaking as he puts his mouth next to Graves's ear.

"You do not seem to understand how serious I am. So let me make myself very clear. If you do not close your mouth and do as I tell you, I will break every last bone in your body, starting with your light fingers. Now you're going to open this vault _now_."

He lets go of Graves and takes a step back, keeping his gun trained on the man's head.

"Aah," Graves says, straightening his bloodied tie. "So it's the Dodger you're after."

"Open it!" Illya barks.

"I think I'd like to negotiate. His life is in my hands."

Illya fires two shots, one to each side of Graves's head. "And I hold yours in mine. Open the safe."

For once, Graves doesn't have a comeback as he turns to the safe. His quiet doesn't last long, though, and he half-shouts, "You're lucky I remember the combination, because with the ringing in my ears there's no way in hell I'd be able to do this by touch." He turns the hand wheel and Illya's knees nearly go weak at the deep sound of the vault being unlocked.

"Move," he says, pushing Graves out of the way and pulling open the heavy door. He doesn't care that he hears the son of a bitch making a break for it up the stairs.

He's more concerned about the sight of his partner, slumping out of the vault like a ragdoll.

"Cowboy!" Illya rushes forward, pulling the American out onto the basement floor so he's lying flat. He gives Napoleon's shoulder a shake, and his stomach knots at the man's limpness. "Come on!"

He holds a hand over Solo's mouth, feeling for a breath, but there isn't one.

"No no _no._ "

 _He's too late_.

He takes a deep breath, trying to remember the steps to the new procedure they'd been taught in the fancy first-aid class Waverly had made them take-CP...CP _something_. It doesn't matter. He thinks the breaths come second. He laces his fingers together and places the heels of his palms in the middle of Napoleon's chest. He's about to start compression when the American suddenly takes a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes snapping open as he gulps down air.

Illya sags with relief, the tension he'd been carrying for the last few hours melting away as he grasps Napoleon's hand in his own.

"That's it, Cowboy. Just breathe. Just breathe."

"You…" Napoleon pauses to catch his breath. "You opened the vault. How-how did-"

"Hush," Illya says, pressing a finger to Napoleon's lips and ignoring the look of surprise this garners. "That is a story for another day. For now, I think we had better get you to hospital."

Napoleon closes his eyes and gives a short nod. "Yes, I think we had. Just let me...Let me lie here a moment." He opens one eye and looks up at Illya. "Thank you, Peril."

His voice, though tired, is steady. But there's something in his expression that speaks to the fear he must have felt, the aloneness. Illya doesn't press the matter, knowing that his partner will talk about it when he's ready, or he won't.

"Hey, Cowboy?"

"Yeah?"

"B4 to C6," Illya says, and he smiles. "Checkmate."


End file.
